gross love stuff

Back in January, when I still remembered I had this space, I wrote about pining for someone I wanted so badly but believed I was wrong to want. (There’s that whole doubting my emotions thing.)

Here we are, 5 months later having celebrated our back to back birthdays together, pretty fucking happy and pretty fucking coupled. The sweet, nerdy guy faded away. The guy my heart has been drawn to for nearly a year loves me back.

There are no guarantees. My hyperviligence and fear and insecurity persists to some extent. Therapy – I’m into it. But fuck it because this is great. This exactly why I needed to be open and vulnerable. So I could feel this.

You never know, anyway, these two crazy kids might work out. I believe we will.

tell me something

I’m doing much better, in terms of focusing my energy on

work

school

me

significant others

people who have potential to become significant.

Hopefully not in that order.

I had a counseling appointment and my mind was kind of blown. She knew me for like 70 minutes before pointing out to me that I am incredibly uncomfortable with my emotional mind (wise mind = emotional mind + logical mind in harmony, that whole thing). And holy fuck, I’ve been analyzing my own mind since birth, and occasionally on the internet over the last 9 years, and somehow never put the pieces together. OF COURSE I AM UNCOMFORTABLE WITH EMOTIONS.

If you had asked me if I were good with emotions I would have said YES I LOVE THEM! I’m emotionally intelligent! I’m in touch with my feelings!

Sure, I’m in touch with my feelings as far as knowing exactly what they are every second and as far as enjoying a good cry. And I just LOVE other people’s feelings because it makes me feel useful and competent helping them with them. I criticized (not wrongly) my ex for not being able to a) be in touch with his feelings and b) communicate them to me without panic and shutting down.

Meanwhile, I hate my feelings. I think I’m ok with them but every internal conflict, every insecurity I’ve ever had can be reduced to my fear of being vulnerable and my distrust of my emotions. The disconnect between what I believed I should feel and what I naturally as a human being did feel. I would have described myself as emotional and not because I am irrational or led by my emotions but because I think of that side of myself as completely ridiculous, shameful, and embarrassing. That’s not being ok with my emotions, that’s being a perfectionist robot.

(Look my ex was a robot, still. But, hmm.)

I guess the point is, I don’t have all the insight. Having someone to bounce my thoughts off of is going to be helpful and kinda fun. I’m not feeling so raw anyway at the moment. But. I wouldn’t perhaps have the tendency to break into tears nearly as much if all of the tension (IE FEELINGS!) I unconsciously build up inside myself was allowed to escape a little more often.

Truly, I’ve lived my life inside my own head. Where it is safe and comforting and everyone agrees with me. So the fellow I’m dating and trying to sleep with, albeit, without trying trying is quite possibly in his head also. Both of us sitting on the couch trying to find a good, but rejection-proof, method to get into the other’s pants. I am meant, I think, to learn some goddamn emotional bravery.

There’s no guarantee that it will really happen with this fellow, but there never is. I can’t keep dating him if he never initiates and never starts acting incredibly smitten with me. I just think it’s well worth trying to break through this awkwardness. I can cure my inhibitions, if not his.

 

dear diary

It feels so childish, pining for someone. So far, I’ve only gone a month at a time before contacting him and starting all over again. Now it’s been almost a day. So fucking insufferable of me, because I felt fine when we weren’t talking. I felt past it (at least twice) and then made the conscious, informed decision to rip off the scab (at least twice!) and here we are.

These are the songs that make me think of him, since I’m being childish. Not so childish that I’d make a mix tape and send it. I can’t send anything.

I Will Fall (from Nashville)

Portions for Foxes (Rilo Kiley)

Colors (Amos Lee)

I’m so bad with rejection. I would rather stub my toe than be confronted with the (inconceivable) possibility of someone not being head over heels in love with me.

I felt something like this for someone in college, before I had a sane, appropriate relationship with mutual, stable feelings. This is worse though, because this asshole who had the nerve to not be head over heels in love with me is so great, somehow. I know exactly how he’s not great, I know what our issues would be together. It’s been dysfunctional. It’s just I see so clearly this potential…He was exactly the kind of person I want in my life.

Meanwhile, I’m dating someone nerdy, smart, and sweet. But he hasn’t kissed me in six weeks. And I don’t even care. I’m not invested in that. Why chase potential when I can distract myself with an unrealistic hope of someone waking up and seeing how great I am? Maybe guy who doesn’t kiss me thinks I’m great, maybe he doesn’t want to kiss me because he doesn’t think I’m great. Why worry about that when I can write in my virtual diary about this asshole, the equivalent of scribbling in pink and purple pen with hearts above the is?

I wish he really was an asshole, I would not be in this predicament.

cheer

I took some time off after Christmas and returned to work today to find my job as grating as I left it. (I’m trying to plan an actual vacation and god forbid anybody I work with volunteering to give me coverage I must get before getting any time off approved. I do a lot of shit that nobody else does so I’m integral, as I keep reminding myself someone said once, but being integral means apparently that I’m the only person who can do any aspect of my job description, ever.) But blahblahblah I help people for a living and isn’t that just so rewarding and fun. Whatever.

I don’t really know what I’m doing with this space anymore. You missed me at Christmas, I was really very jolly. I was focused on the stuff that matters – friends, family – and I got a piece of furniture I needed and cash money so that was pretty sweet. I was pretty content.

So of course 12/27 I went and had sex with someone who doesn’t care about me. And that’s no real bummer on its own, sex with someone who doesn’t care, but this person I care about and the onesidedness coupled with my absolute refusal to learn from history made for a great day of shame 12/29.

I am starting therapy again. It’s been a long time and I need to figure out primarily how to take better care of myself. I’m just not doing it on my own despite my stubborn belief that I HAS ALL THE INSIGHT*. I don’t know what really triggers all of my sadness/insecurity/anxiety, that is, what makes it worse some times than others. Lately, let’s say since I last wrote if not longer, I have been raw. Just walking around like an exposed nerve. I hate the idea that anyone else, especially at work, could pick up on me not being…together/confident/normal/happy. I hate the idea that it could have made me a less effective worker for my clients. So, therapy.

Seriously, for the better part of a week I really thought I nailed this seasonal joy thing. Maybe next year I will get it right.**

 

* My favorite new insight into myself is that I undermine most things I do or any accomplishment I might have with this nagging, irrational belief that it just doesn’t really count because I’m not the best. I’m not a genius. Everything could be better, so who cares if I do well. Except I care so hard that failing or making a mistake is essentially THE WORST THING THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN.

** See, I made a bad choice and it led to me being sad after Christmas so I failed at Christmas/winter/life.

 

confessions

I’m a mature, educated young woman who does professional rewarding work, has a healthy sexual appetite and a close, tightknit social circle. And instead of watching the stupid Red Sox win the world series last night with an attractive man I (used to) screw, I was in bed fantasizing about a life in which I have a boyfriend and we adopt a puppy together and cook Thanksgiving food and snuggle.

linky

I love this blogger. I relate to this “sexcalator” syndrome and the perspective on this is something I’m trying to take to heart.

When Crazy Cupid Love posted this, it was also exactly at the right time. I was bummed about this one fellow. Then I wasn’t bummed about him. Then I had sex with him twice this week. The cycle is destined to repeat, I’m sure. Why must I be so attracted to men who say nice things I suspect they don’t mean? “I miss you, btw” is the secret code you need to email me, and I will surely allow you into my pants.

1. = A 7-foot wide house I would kill to live in. Neat!

I’m only at 61.1%. When one particular person gets fired, it will jump to 72%. I’m 65% confident that the firing will happen.

Stair porn is one of the best things in my reader. I guess I’m into architecture. I want to build a tiny house with sexy stairs.

Sometimes, when awesome ideas present themselves, I kinda want to get married.

I am partial to mini-schnauzers, and of course scraggly mixed breeds, but this breed of dog reminds me of Sprocket from Fraggle Rock and I want one.

No.

I want to a life where this kind of grand romance happens.

This doesn’t really counteract your above daily “police shoot someone for no fucking reason” news, but it is quite delightful.

I’m always looking for new charitable work!

I want either an adorable dog or a little girl I can corrupt into a lifelong feminist. Adorable.

Hey, have we traveled back in time 6 years? I am currently supposed to be writing a paper that should have been done earlier this week rather than updating my emo blog.

disconnect

Recently, I was perturbed at work about the way my overzealous supervisor was behaving. It was a legitimate perturbation (perturbance is not a word, it should be) but today, in a larger discussion, it was brought to my attention again that I’m a little bit hard on myself. There are some ways that this affects my perspective on things and I am always working on taking in others’ feedback through my oversensitive filter.

The thing is, I’m very competent at my job. I know that, I feel that, and everyone at works validates that. And so, why is the idea of making a mistake so threatening to my sense of self. Because it is. Logically, I know that I’m not perfect and don’t need to be. My impulse somehow, my tiny inner aggressive instinct, is to believe that it’s all or nothing. I’m the best or the worst. And I think I’m the best more often than not so then I think, yeah, I’m someone with good self esteem. I’m the best at self esteem!

Heh. I actually think I have a good sense of what I’m good at and not so good at. I’m just competing with this emotional, irrational, and insidious other…thing. The trance of unworthiness in mindfulness speak. Sometimes I’m not even aware of it, but it’s there. Enough that a caring and insightful person could tell me that she thinks there’s a part of me that doesn’t believe I’m good enough and be right.

My supervisor was still being a dick.

chock full of more self-revealatory overshare

Can I claim temporary insanity on the last post? Similar to when I don’t shave to keep myself from sex on a date, I had a long email conversation that night with my once (and future?) selfish sex friend that ensured he’ll be turned off for the near future.

Actually, we just had an honest conversation and I expressed the same depths of insecurity and longing I did here. It was good. He’s selfish and I’ve excused it in the past, mostly because when I’ve been with him I’ve been selfish too. He’s not an asshole and I enjoy(ed?) his company. And his beautiful, enthusiastic anatomy.

BUT I don’t think I’m seeing him in the near future because (after Sex Meltdown 2013) I just might finally be free of the impulse that I have always had- ie, any rejection in any area of life -> must obtain validation -> most efficient and easy way -> SEX.

A million two years ago, when my then-fiance ended our relationship, that is exactly what I did (WITH THIS SAME GUY EVEN) and, frankly, it worked and I did the more difficult emotional work later.

A very short time ago, I met someone truly awesome who I really like and it seems that it was this potential great thing that never came close to happening, despite that I wanted it to. But I’m not high with a charming, naked man in my room, pleasuring away the discomfort.

Maybe because I went into work Friday and was really, seriously moved by the support I have there, even when things are sucky. Maybe because I had class today and it was super interesting, actually fun, and really gratifying.

I do have perspective. I have this full life and all this potential. (I’M JUST THE BEST AND MOST AMAZING ZEN PERSON AREN’T I! Gross.)

But whatever, my vag is back online, minus the sadness, cause I’m going to get mine. Just on my terms.

I’m sure this is typo-laden but I’m bed bound.

hopeless

I am the worst! Well, I’m inclined to think men are the worst but that is too cliche so I’m going with me. I. Am. The. Worst.

A few weeks ago I took an ill advised late night trip into the city, to fuck my most reliable of fuck buddies. These past couple years, I’ve had the most sex with this person and his selfish but impressive sex style in combination with generous marijuana supply made us good buddies. But that last time was a horrible experience for many various ways. He thought it might be the last time, because I have been honest about my casual sex fatigue, which made him weird and turned me off. Everything hurt and I left in less than an hour. I felt guilty and obligated and you don’t need to be a women’s rights detective to understand those are bad circumstances to have sex under. I was mad at myself.

Meanwhile, my brother and roommate knew where I was going and openly judged me for it, as he has witnessed this person have less than great character. Worst weekend excursion in recent memory.

He apologized for…whatever…and said he was really drunk and I shrugged it off and told him, “It’s at least partly my fault.”

Last night he texts me under the flirty pretext of his shirt having been left in my bedroom July 4. He is not the best fuck buddy! I should be able to admit that after all these various issues and demand better more respectful more pleasurable sex for myself. Instead I am so fucking tempted to say FUCK EVERYTHING and, hey buddy, fuck me. And just keep the whole thing going so that, at least, I get laid.

The truth is, honestly, I don’t want to fuck ANOTHER fucking new person. I don’t want to find out if it’s better or worse. I DON’T WANT TO MEET ANOTHER HORNY HUMAN BEING WITH NO INTEREST IN ANY OTHER PART OF MY LIFE. We are all entitled to seek out sexually contact. I’m entitled. But I have to be honest that at this moment in time, I am not a detached sexually confident person with great boundaries. I’m a person who is nearly convinced that I’m never going to be in a romantic relationship that I want to be in.

I’m fucked up inside my brainspace about this very fucking issue. This is not because of sex, sex didn’t ruin me, and it is annoying to admit that I feel so profoundly shitty right now because, as usual, I WANT TO BE QUEEN OF CONTROLLING MY ISSUES and not be weak or anything less than perfectly well-adjusted. I have to be, because otherwise, it’s like conservatives win! Jesus is the answer. Quick, someone sew my hymen back in!

What are my choices?! Have some sex, be gratified, get a cuddly sleepover or lock this psychologically vulnerable vagina down?

Mother of fuck.

old and tired

I took needed time off from work today and I’m sure I will pay for it later. It was a good choice, though. My body feels middle-aged sometimes and I need to stop putting off my yoga goal.

My dad called both me and my brother to tell us he needed to take his dog to the vet tonight and it might mean putting her down. And it did. She had a good run. Mostly it is sad because he sounded so sad.

I really feel for my father and I hate those moments when I know he is in pain. He’s really proud. But he’s having a hard time.

I don’t like having to worry about my parents’ well-being, with money especially because I know how much it sucks and I can’t help and a big part of me resents that they aren’t more secure so that I could relax and not worry…

And then there’s all that baggage because I do blame my father for his past behavior and I sometimes wish we didn’t have a relationship so that again I wouldn’t have to worry.

Recently, I have been focused on the nastiness, the dark stuff that shaped me in weird uncomfortable ways and it’s fair to say I’ve forgotten a lot of good stuff.

My dad was the best dad on field trips. He is made sure I knew I was loved and beautiful and smart. I was not allowed to drive in the snow ever. I was not allowed on trampolines. All he cared about in the world, I think, were his children.

He made pancakes every morning for a long time because we liked them, but I got sick of them. I kept eating them because he seemed to enjoy doing it so much that I wanted to pretend that I liked them. That pretty much sums up our whole dynamic right there. I don’t want to let him down.

I’m so sorry that his (our) dog died and that he is alone.